


nothing feels like us

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Slightly Christmassy, This was supposed to be porn, kind of more angsty longing instead, which didn't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 20:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17210555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: “This is a bad idea.” The words ghost across Jev’s cheek but there’s no force to them and André’s hands have crept up to cradle his head, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. When Jev moves to look up at André his eyes are closed, lips still slightly parted in offering.--- Post-Autosport awards groping in Jev's hallway.





	nothing feels like us

**Author's Note:**

> Set at/after the Autosport Awards earlier this month (obviously it wasn't supposed to take this long to write). This was actually going to be a PWP but somehow that didn't really work so erm, I'm not sure what it is now. Hope you enjoy anyway! 
> 
> Title from Basement by Annie Eve.

“It was nice of you asking Sara tonight.” Jean-Éric glances at André, swirling his champagne around in the glass a little to renew the fizz, trying for the kind of nonchalance that would suggest he hasn’t spent the last ten minutes wondering how to raise the subject. They’re in his kitchen finishing up the pre-awards bottle of GH Mumm that Carl had brought round, the older man on a phone call in the living room while their dates are still getting ready through in the bathroom. André frowns a little, quirking his eyebrow and raising the flute to his lips in a way that makes Jev think he’s playing for time, choosing his words carefully. _One of those subjects_ , Jev reminds himself, _one of those things that’s always just a little bit off limits._

“I thought she’d like it,” André eventually replies, only the slightest hint of defensiveness in his voice, “people who don’t go to these things all the time appreciate it more. And my mom was busy.”

Jean-Éric giggles a little before realising that André’s being serious.

“What, she loves a free meal, bro.”

Jev opens his mouth to prod a little more but then Carl is poking his head round the door to tell them the car is here, their dates joining them and the moment fading away.

 

Jev is halfway down the stairs when he remembers he’d intended to put the dishwasher on before they left, all the dishes from the lunch he’d shared with André earlier still waiting to be cleaned. He dashes back to flick it on, unable to help himself from glancing in the open door of the guest bedroom. André’s brown leather carry-on is open on the bed, toiletries scattered around and the black turtleneck he was wearing earlier lying on the floor where it’s clearly fallen from the back of the chair. Jev takes a step inside the room, feeling a little like an intruder in his own house as he picks it up with the intention of replacing it on the wingback. The material is soft beneath his fingers, speaking of expense and luxury. Jean-Éric holds it to his face for a moment, inhaling the scent of André’s skin, the faint sandalwood of _Acqua Di Parma_.

 

It plays on his mind, André’s lack of a date. Not just this evening but at every gala dinner they’ve ever attended together, all the flirtatious banter they’ve engaged in over the past year flowing through his mind as freely as the champagne they’re handed at the reception. He watches André out the corner of his eye while he accepts a rare roast beef canapé from a passing waiter, the horseradish making his tongue tingle.

André engages noncommittally, working the room with his media face on, his smile only widening in genuine warmth and joy when he spots Leena, waving her over and pulling her into a sweeping hug. It irks Jean-Éric in a way, the history they have and the idea that Leena knows André in deeper ways than Jean-Éric has been allowed, something knowing in her eyes when she glances around and realises that André’s date is the Techeetah PR, almost as if she’d hoped it would be someone different.

 

The wine is copious and flowing at dinner, Jev drinking enough that the curiosity only intensifies and he finds himself holding André’s gaze for longer than is really prudent given their surroundings. Jean-Éric has gone some way to earning his place here in the glittering hotel ballroom among the elite of their sport, but the recklessness of wanting more still flows in his veins, as addictive and bold as the Gamay that’s softened the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t make it this far by not pushing and he finds himself unable to refrain from doing so now, even though it maybe isn’t the right time or place.

“I know plenty of people in London,” Jean-Éric whispers to André when there’s a break in the prize-giving, “I could have hooked you up with some models, anyone you like.”

André takes a sharp breath, giving Jev a sideways glare that makes his heart seem to thunder in his chest. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about my date.” He moves his chair away fractionally, turning to talk to Tom Kristensen across at the next table as Jev mentally kicks himself, sifting through all the flirting they’ve done in his mind, all the times he’s caught André looking at him with this intensity in his eyes that he doesn’t understand. He pushes the remains of the pan-roasted pheasant around the plate, wondering for one maddening moment if he should maybe speak to Leena.

It’s difficult for Jean-Éric to school his face into neutrality when he takes to the stage to present the Rookie of the Year award, aware even before he’s opened the envelope that it won’t be André’s name in there. It’s been a joke between them anyway and he can’t resist but bring it up now, _rookie of the year_ at 37. André smiles and laughs, catching his eye across the crowded room in that way he has, the way that makes Jev want to give up everything he has for more of him. Yet even as he’s saying it he thinks of a couple of weeks earlier, the complete silence to his texts and calls and eventually a message from James late at night – _he hates birthdays, don’t take it personally._

 

There’s no chance to talk to André without an audience again until later, after the awards are wrapped up and everyone is mingling again. Jean-Éric watches as André excuses himself from the table, the telltale twirl of an expensive looking cigarette lighter between thumb and forefinger giving Jev enough of an indication as to where he’s going. Jean-Éric gives it a moment and then follows, relieved to find there’s no one else in the smoking area, just André looking out at the damp December evening, smoke curling into the air.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he says, taking the cigarette when André offers it to him, holding it to his lips and imagining he can taste André’s saliva on the filter. “I know you can find your own date, I wasn’t implying…” He shrugs. They’ve never really had an argument, not a proper one at any rate. The thought of it makes Jev’s stomach clench in horror, but he’s always dealt with confrontation better than silence, even as his own predilections have often left his past lovers requesting things that Jev can’t voice when he’s stuck inside his own head the way he once used to be.

André side-eyes him, Jev wondering what it is he’s seeing. Their fingers brush together when Jev passes the cigarette back, the touch making Jev shiver, pulling his suit jacket a little tighter around himself in the pretence that it’s something to do with the cold.

“I think that the kind of date I’d want to bring wouldn’t be very PR-friendly,” André replies after a moment of silence punctuated only by the distant whirr of sirens, turning to face Jean-Éric as he grinds the cigarette out on the wall. Jean-Éric’s breath catches in his throat and he lets himself just stare for a moment, gaze flicking between Andre’s eyes and his lips. There’s a vulnerability in André’s eyes that Jev has only seen once or twice before but there’s a challenge there too. Jean-Éric wonders if André would be honest if he asked, just the two of them out here alone. It’s too much to hope that André wants the same thing he does, an uncalculated risk that could cost more than Jean-Éric has to lose. _Do you mean it?_ he wants to ask. _All of this between us, is it real?_

“No?” is the sole word he can summon.

“No,” André repeats, his face softening. “We should head back inside yeah.” André pats him on the shoulder.

 

In the end it’s only Lorene who joins them for the car journey home, Jean-Éric feeling like he’s fucked up royally by slipping her a story about feeling slightly off and _maybe it was the prawns_ before brushing aside her concern with _actually it’s a very early Eurostar we have to catch in the morning,_ only remembering when she’d questioned it that he’d already confirmed the train is at 10. He’d brushed aside her murmurings about getting a separate car, convincing himself he’s doing something good for the environment by not prompting further emissions into the already heavily polluted London streets. Of course it’s more to appease his conscience about giving her the brush off. He likes her enough to not want to do that in any kind of meaningful way, but the thought of lying beside her while André sleeps alone in the next room of Jean-Éric’s own apartment does make him feel slightly queasy in a not too dissimilar way than if the seafood had been on the turn.

It’s a short drive, especially this time of night. The distance does nothing to resolve the tension Jean-Éric imagines is a physical presence in the car. He takes the back seat, Lorene beside him but far away, glancing out of the tinted windows as Hyde Park sails by, the fairground rides of Winter Wonderland ground to a halt now but still illuminated, bright and garish, _festive._ Jev reaches for Lorene’s hand across the seat, entwining his fingers with hers and giving a soft squeeze. He likes her, he really does. Likes her maturity, likes the soft warmth of her smile when she talks about her daughter. Something about her makes him feel like he’s almost whole, the kind of _real_ he’d told himself he’d never be worthy of back in his darkest moments. His eyes are trained on André though, occupying the passenger seat in front of Lorene. From this angle Jean-Éric can only see his face in profile, streetlights passing over him. Jev can’t tell what he’s thinking from his expression, staring straight ahead as if out of habit, always wanting to be the one behind the wheel.

They pass through the luxurious splendour of Brompton Road, the mass of lights decorating Harrods a reminder that even though Jean-Éric has paid someone to do all of the Christmas shopping on the list he’d sent through, there was just one name left off there, the vague idea that sometime he’d find a vintage camera equipment shop and pick out an accessory that would make André smile on Christmas morning, despite knowing that he’s barely in the country long enough to even pick up his own dry cleaning let alone go to the shops.

Jev pointedly refuses to look at André when the driver keeps going past South Kensington station and instead continues on towards West Brompton, turning into a quiet Mews and stopping outside one of the tiny brick cottages that looks straight out of a movie. He ignores André’s sound of surprise, turning to Lorene and kissing her on both cheeks and then on the lips. “Get some rest, I’ll see you in Paris.” She strokes her fingers through his beard, kissing him with enough affection that Jean-Éric despises himself for a second.

“She has a very early flight,” Jean-Éric shrugs when André turns to look at him questioningly. “It was easier to stay at our own apartments.”

 

Jean-Éric makes a mess of getting the key into the lock of his own front door, exaggerating his level of drunkenness so he can enjoy the heat of André’s body pressed up behind his own. André’s breath is warm on the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there prickle. _The kind of date I’d want to bring_ , Jev replays in his head for the dozenth time since André had said the words.

“It jammed?” André asks, stepping to the side and covering Jev’s hand with his own. Jean-Éric takes a sideways glance. André’s hair has come loose from the firm hold of the gel he’d put in, falling forward a little in a way that makes Jev ache to brush it back. He’d undone the bow-tie in the car and it lies draped around his neck, three buttons of his crisp white Hugo Boss shirt undone to reveal a glimpse of all year round sunkissed skin, a smattering of hair covering his chest.

André moves his hand against Jean-Eric’s, Jev resisting to prolong the contact for a moment longer before slipping back and allowing André to turn the key.

“It seemed jammed.” Jev sheepishly follows André into the apartment, closing the door behind him. André reaches for the light switch, something in the louche, possessive nature with which he treats Jean-Éric’s apartment jarring a little, almost as if he expects an allowance to take and take, to seep into every unwatched corner of Jev’s life and give nothing back except half-truths and hints.

André turns when Jean-Éric’s hand closes around his wrist before he can flick the switch, opening his mouth to speak before the words die on his lips as he catches sight of Jev’s expression. If there was any doubt in Jev’s mind about why he sent Lorene away it’s undeniable now. He doesn’t want them to sit on the sofa and have a nightcap and a joke, retire to separate rooms. The thought of it is suddenly too much, the peak of a crescendo that’s about to come crashing down. It was fine when he could tell himself André was just playing, a flirtation to pass the time, an extension of their friendship. The thought that maybe there was a deeper intent behind it sets Jev’s heart racing as he thinks back to all the stories that have unravelled in his head over the past season, imagining what dark depths of André’s past had led him to this state of perpetual private solitude he seems to be in, his gaze that lingers on women but never for long enough to be anything more than just for show. It was easier to think he’d had his heart broken in Tokyo, or that there was a girl still stashed away there, someone he planned to return to one day even. Easier to push it aside.

However small, it feels as though André has given him a way in tonight, and Jean-Éric is someone who knows how to take a chance even if the odds aren’t necessarily all in his favour. He can feel the beat of André’s pulse against his thumb, the bones of his wrist feel surprisingly delicate.

 _Fuck it,_ Jev thinks.

“I would have been your date.” Jev feels almost as if the words are detached from him, as if the rational part of his brain knows this is the kind of thing he’ll wake up regretting in the morning, sick with his inability to control his emotions. Yet there’s a relief that comes with finally saying it for real. He releases André’s wrist, leaning back against the wall opposite him, praying André doesn’t walk down the hall and close the door to the guest room behind him. “If you asked me, I would. For anything, anywhere.” The voice in his head chastising him for being such a fucking idiot is Lea’s and he’d laugh if he didn’t want this so damn much.

“Jev.” André draws out the syllable, low and with a hint of warning.

Jean-Eric knows he should change the subject, go and put some coffee on to still his slightly spinning head, say goodnight. It’s the thought of another season of want that prevents him from doing so, another season ahead of shared glances and double entendres, innuendo that speaks of things he’s told himself weren’t available. The scent of the idea that something more might be there for the taking makes his blood sing with the same adrenaline as chasing a win, a championship.

He takes a step closer, sliding his suit jacket off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, his eyes locked with André’s wary gaze. There’s tension in André’s stance but he says nothing, leans off the wall to allow Jean-Eric to slide his tuxedo jacket down enough that his arms are trapped at the elbows, Jev’s eyes dark with lust and a challenge for André to stop him.

He remains motionless, even as Jean-Éric reaches for one end of the bow-tie, pulling it from around André’s neck and balling it up in his palm, pressing the softness of the velvet against his cheek before tracing the neckline of André’s shirt down his chest until he reaches the barrier of the first unopened button. André’s breathing is heavy, catching in his throat when Jev thumbs first one then another button open, slipping his hand inside to map over the quivering muscles of André’s stomach.

Belatedly it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know what he’s doing, or rather he knows but hasn’t let himself consider the possibility of the fantasy becoming real until tonight, hasn’t thought of consequences and implications. He’s content to ignore them now, letting his fingers play over André’s skin until the sensation raises goosebumps over his ribs. Touching him feels so maddeningly good, so addictive and consuming, a fever dream thrust into life. He glances back up André’s body to look him in the eye again and searching for signs of any discomfort there, finding only heat beneath the wariness.

“Jev,” André breathes again, the edge of warning fading from his voice slightly. Jean-Éric pulls André’s shirt free from the confines of his trousers, nosing at his neck and inhaling the scent of his cologne, lips not quite touching skin.

Jev's heart is beating so fast he feels sure André must be able to hear it, to feel the need and desperation that courses through his body. “Please,” he murmurs, sliding his hands out of André’s shirt to pull the tuxedo jacket off him fully, freeing André’s arms from the trap of the fabric and hoping that it won’t earn him a punch.

“Please, André.” He lets his lips touch, the gentlest pressure just above André’s collarbone and then higher, slowly dragging his mouth up to André’s jaw, melting against him when André wraps his arms around him in a loose hold. He kisses his way around André’s jaw and up the underside of his chin, André tilting his head back in offering as Jev nuzzles his face against the scratchiness of his stubble, gentle nips of teeth that prompt sounds from André that Jev has longed to hear for months. Their lips brush, the lightest of touches; almost nothing. Pressed up so close Jev can feel the heat of André’s erection against his hip, their breathing equally laboured, the weight of the last remaining boundaries finally disintegrating.

“This is a bad idea.” The words ghost across Jev’s cheek but there’s no force to them and André’s hands have crept up to cradle his head, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. When Jev moves to look up at André his eyes are closed, lips still slightly parted in offering.

“Tell me to stop,” Jev whispers, kissing him chastely, tracing the boundary of André’s waistband with the tip of one finger. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

A pained noise rises in André’s throat, resolve crumbling as he crushes his mouth properly against Jean-Éric’s, licking at the seam of his lips. Jev yields immediately, opening his mouth to André’s tongue. The slide of André’s tongue against his own enough to make Jean-Éric feel light headed, months of longing culminating in the sparks that feel like a current jolting through him at the feeling of finally being able to taste, to touch. He tugs at André’s shirt, frustrated when he has to pull away to remove the cufflinks to get it off properly. André makes a sound low in his throat, ducking his head to lick at Jev’s neck, sucking at the sensitive area below his ear until he whimpers.

“One time,” André warns, as if the compromise will make it acceptable, “only tonight.”

“Only tonight,” Jean-Éric finds himself agreeing, “just so we know.” It’s not the first lie he’s told this evening, that might be the reason he dismisses his acquiescence as nothing to worry about as he struggles with the zip on André’s trousers as if he’s never done this before.

 

Jev wakes up before the alarm goes off, the familiar confusion that always comes from travelling so frequently causing him to wonder what time it is that he needs to be at the track, before realising he’s in his own bed in London. He can’t even recall the last time he woke up next to another man: years, definitely. How many escapes him. They’d pushed the covers back during the night and André is turned on his side facing away from Jean-Éric, close enough that Jev could easily press his lips to the back of André’s neck without moving much. He lifts his hand with the intention of resting it on André’s shoulder, stroking down to touch the marks that colour his hips slightly grey, an imprint of fingertips. André is still sound asleep and Jev drops his hand back to the bed, rolling onto his back and reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

It’s still only 5:30, too early yet to contemplate disturbing whatever fragile moment they exist in, sure to be broken when André wakes, when Lorene calls. Jev pictures them sitting opposite each other on the train, imagines reaching for André’s hand beneath the table as the rainy Kent countryside gives way to the miles of darkness beneath the sea. He wants to step off the train in Paris with André’s hand in his own and not have to explain to anyone why and what it means, partly because fuck them, and partly because he isn’t even sure himself, other than because he wants to. That he likes it. Likes André.

 _How do you get through to him?_ Jev types into his phone. It’s vague as fuck and he isn’t even sure what time it is in Tokyo, doesn’t expect a response as quickly as he receives one.

 _Stick with it_ , the reply says, _even when he acts like a cunt_

Jev smiles to himself, shaking his head at James’ blatancy. He tucks his phone under the pillow, snuggling into the warm sheets, the scent of sex still clinging to them. Without pausing to question himself further he shuffles closer so his chest is pressed along the length of André’s back, slipping an arm around his waist to stroke his stomach.

“Jev,” André murmurs, still lost in the tangles of sleep, reaching up to hold Jean-Éric’s hand.

 


End file.
